


Opinions of Sheep

by Yeehowdy



Series: Wolf Blood [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Angst, Attempted Sexual Assault, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Enemies to Friends, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Bad At Tagging, Joffrey Baratheon is a Little Shit, Love, Mainly Jory X Reader, Male-Female Friendship, Smut, Table Sex, Tourney of the Hand
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-01-06 03:11:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21219608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yeehowdy/pseuds/Yeehowdy
Summary: The little Stark's companion was a bold thing, Sandor had to admit. Maybe that was why the Northern guard cared for her so much."Little squirrel," He rasped, watching he pull a dagger from some hidden part of her skirt.





	1. 1

It could've been a lovely time. The stars were certainly lovely, and the trees smelled like the pines at Winterfell, but it was tense, and every noise made both girls stiffen. 

Arya was silent as (Y/n) brushed her hair, watching the woods around them nervously. The small fire (Y/n) had built crackled quietly, bathing Arya in dim orange light. Nymeria sat near the two girls, her head on her paws, blood still dying the very edge of her fur a light pink. 

"How much longer do you plan to stay out here," (Y/n) asked, sighing. "It's already been four days.”

Arya ducked her head. She didn't want to go back, not after what happened. Her father would be disappointed, Septa Mordane would purse her lips and call her a wild beast, and Sansa...

"Until they forget," Arya said fiercely, rage stirring in her blood at the thought of stupid Sansa. "It's all Joffrey's fault."

"I was there, Arya, I know," (Y/n) responded, exasperated. She turned Arya around in her lap, cupping her face gently. "They won't forget, dear. Best to go back now. We can send Nymeria away so she won't receive any punishment, but it's a fate you won't escape."

Arya sniffled, and (Y/n) pulled her close, shushing her and rocking side to side gently. She stiffened when she heard branches snapping, pulling Arya behind her quickly and drawing the small dagger she kept on her at all times. Arya quieted, her eyes wide as she peeked over (Y/n)'s shoulder. Nymeria prowled up to (Y/n)'s side, snarling.

"Lady Arya," A familiar voice called. "(Y/n)!"

"Jory?" (Y/n) didn't lower her dagger an inch, but inched forward, parting the brush with a hand. Jory stared at her, then at Arya and Nymeria. "Oh, thank the gods it's you."

"Who else would it be," Jory asked, but smiled as (Y/n) threw her arms around him. "Alright. We've got to get you two back."

(Y/n)'s smile fell, and she turned to Arya, guilt etched into her face.

"Sweetling," She said softly, kneeling to be eye-to-eye with Arya. "Make your choice. Do you want to send her away?"

Arya turned her attention to the direwolf who sat back on her paws, yellow eyes watching her calmly. She gulped, turning towards (Y/n).

"Yes," She said quietly, getting to her feet. She closed her eyes as (Y/n) stood, letting the older girl pick her up. She heard Jory shouting, then what sounded like a yelp and hard objects being thrown.

"It's alright, Arya," (Y/n) said, setting Arya on her hip. "Nymeria will be safe. Don't worry."

Arya only nodded. She was tired and hungry, the fire's warmth gone, cold burying deep into her bones. She set her head on (Y/n)'s shoulder, watching the ground. Her eyes fluttered closed not soon after, and (Y/n) set a hand on the girl’s head.

"The queen," (Y/n) said. "Is she-"

"Furious," Jory answered with a sigh. "Says her son was viciously attacked."

"So that's Joffrey's story," (Y/n) said disdainfully, shifting Arya higher. "What's the king's decision?"

"He's waiting until Arya's return."

(Y/n) nodded, stroking Arya head tenderly. She was so little in (Y/n)’s arms, all curled up. (Y/n) could almost feel the exhaustion seep off of her. She was just as, if not more, tired as the little girl, but she stayed strong, humming softly. 

“I was worried about you,” Jory admitted softly, glancing at Arya. He sighed, seemingly embarrassed, and looked away. “I searched all over and couldn’t find you. I thought maybe a bear had eaten you.”

“A bear couldn’t handle me,” (Y/n) said with a soft smile, leaning to pat Jory’s shoulder gently. “I missed you.”

A flash of leather caught her eyes, and she froze, letting go if Jory to draw her dagger.

Arya shook awake when she felt (Y/n) tense, raising her head a little.

"Wha' 's it," She slurred, swiping at her mouth.

"Lannister men," (Y/n) said softly. "Hush now. We'll wait 'til they pass. Go on back to sleep, Arya."

Arya nodded, laying her head back down. (Y/n) started walking not long after, quicker now. She had to get there before anyone else found them. Arya had injured the prince, no matter how little, or how much he deserved it.


	2. 2

(Y/n) stood before the king and queen, tall and proud, her hand on Arya's shoulder. She didn't spare a look at Lord Stark, afraid of what she'd see. Pity, guilt, maybe even resentment. The Lord had always looked older than his 35 years, but when she did dare a glance, she was almost alarmed at the grizzled face that looked back at her. 

"She and that peasant boy ganged up on me," Joffrey blubbered. "Beat me with sticks, and set her wolf on me, then threw my sword in the river."

Arya looked like she was going to say something, and (Y/n) gave her shoulder a squeeze, half reassuring, half threatening. The king turned his attention to the youngest Stark girl quickly enough, motioning to her.

"Mycah and I were playing. I asked to practice knights with me. He didn't want to, but I made him. We were having fun when Joffrey came." Arya was holding herself together surprisingly well, letting herself be safe with the hand on her shoulder as her sanctuary. She tucked her anger away underneath it, seemingly hiding under the palm as she continued. "Joffrey told him he only held a stick and challenged him to a fight. He cut Mycah, and I hit him with my stick, but only to save Mycah. Joffrey pushed me to the ground, but Nymeria came. She bit him, but it was only to protect me, and I threw his sword in the river only so he couldn't hurt anybody else!"

Through all of this, the small room they were gathered was silent, Joffrey looking pitiful tucked against his mothers' side. Silence reigned the room for a moment, and (Y/n) was tense, stepping closer to Arya stealthily.

"What in all the seven hells am I to make of this?" King Robert shifted in his chair, and (Y/n) almost felt bad for the man. "He says one thing, she says another."

"They were not the only ones there," Lord Stark said quickly. "Sansa, come here."

(Y/n) turned, sending the redhead a wary smile. She had never been as close to Sansa as she had been to Arya, but she still cared for her, making her laugh and smile enough to be a friend.

"I don't know," Sansa said nervously. She looked close to tears, and (Y/n) stepped forward, setting her other hand on Sansa's shoulder, rubbing gently. "It all happened so fast."

"Liar," Arya shrieked, darting forward. She yanked at Sansa's hair, chanting 'liar' like a prayer.

"Enough," (Y/n) shouted, dragging Arya back by the wrist. The room had gone silent again, Arya staring up at (Y/n) remorsefully. (Y/n) turned her attention back to the king and queen, stepping forward. "Your Grace, forgive my impertinence, but I was there as well. I saw what happened."

"Go on, girl," King Robert said, motioning her to continue.

(Y/n) started, telling everything she remembered from that time. She kept it brief, but detailed, not pausing once as she gave her side.

"Joffrey told her he would slit her gut open, called her a bitch," (Y/n) spat with a sharp look at Joffrey, who was carefully avoiding her eyes. "Nymeria jumped in only to protect Arya. Joffrey was lucky Arya was able to stop Nymeria."

"And then you two ran off into the forest for four days," Cersei said coolly, her eyes narrowed into slits. "Tell me, what kind of handmaiden runs away with a child?"

"The kind who can see that child is terrified," (Y/n) answered harshly, eyes blazing, itching to reach for her dagger. "The kind who can see she can't change that child's mind, so she must take care of them any manner that she can. Arya had just spilled a prince's blood, no matter how little. She was frightened, and for good reason. She doesn't know you, she didn't know what you would do to her. From what I've seen, she was right to run."

Cersei was silent, murder in her eyes, and Arya huddled close to (Y/n)'s back, her face pushed deep into the back of her dress. (Y/n) did not look away from the queen, her eyes just as penetrating, full of ice and promises of revenge. The king nodded and looked over to Lord Stark, who watched (Y/n) with silent respect.

"Discipline your daughter," Robert said calmly. "And I'll discipline my son."

"And what of the direwolf," Cersei asked.

"We found no trace of the one who bit Joffrey, Your Grace." 

King Robert didn't look unhappy about that. (Y/n) found herself relaxing, pulling the two Stark girls against her chest. Both were quick to melt against her, resting their heads on her hip and shoulder respectively. (Y/n) whispered soothing words to them, hugging them as close as she could while being appropriate.

"There is one more," Cersei said, her eyes gleaming in a way that made (Y/n) want to cut them out. "I shall give a hundred golden dragons to whoever brings me its pelt."

The words seemed to ripple through the room before anybody realized what she meant. Arya and Sansa both shouted in realization, but (Y/n) tugged them behind her as she stepped forward once more, her icy glare leveled onto the queen.

"Lady is innocent. She did and has done nothing." She turned back to King Robert, who was watching her, seemingly frozen in his place. (Y/n)’s eyes were pleading when she looked at him, Sansa and Arya staring at him as well. "Please, Your Grace. Let the wolf go, released into the forest. She will find her way North, I swear it."

"And what if it doesn't? What if it attacks a civilian?" Cersei had an odd, condescending smile on her face.

Robert seemed to stiffen, before turning his attention to Lord Stark. He looked at Cersei with utter loathing, sending an apologetic glance to (Y/n), whose mouth had become a hard line, Sansa sobbing into her shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Ned." He turned back to the gathering in the room. "Ser Ilyn will see to it."

"I will do it," Lord Stark said bitterly. 

"You," Cersei asked, her eyes narrowed. "What are you playing at, Stark?"

"Lady is from the North," (Y/n) said quickly. "She deserves better than a butcher. Girls, go to bed. I will be there shortly."

Sansa sobbed into her hands, racing out of the room with Arya on her heels. Arya paused only once, looking over her shoulder to (Y/n). For a moment, she wasn't Arya Underfoot, not a wolf with its teeth bared. She was just a little girl, helpless and afraid. (Y/n) waved her on.

"Come," Lord Stark said, brushing past (Y/n). "Jory, bring me Ice."

(Y/n) followed without hesitation, sending one last glare to Joffrey, whose smile faltered.

"We could let her go," She said feebly. "Tell some guards to escort her back to Winterfell and tell the queen we killed her."

Ned was silent except for a heavy sigh, and (Y/n) fell silent as he led the way to the kennel, walking slowly. (Y/n) squirmed, the air tense, her hands in front of her.

“(Y/n),” Ned said suddenly. “I’ve had the pleasure of you at my table, yes?”

“When I first started, my lord.” (Y/n) recalled the day with a soft smile. “Arya was still a girl.”

“She is still a girl. Thank you,” Ned said, turning to face (Y/n). “For protecting her. I don’t know how far she could’ve gotten, or who could’ve found her, but I trust you enough to know you would’ve fought tooth and nail for her”

(Y/n) nodded, but easily became distracted, glancing over his shoulder uneasily. Ned turned and spied Lady, chained up to a post near the kennel.

“Hello, Lady,” (Y/n) cooed, kneeling next to the wolf. She glanced at Jory, who had brought Ice, and dropped her eyes, turning her attention back to the direwolf, who snuffled at her hands. “You’re such a good girl, Lady. Sansa loves you. I love you.”

Ned winced, raising Ice high above his head. (Y/n) sat back a bit, her eyes squeezed shut. She felt the sword drop before she heard it, gasping when something warm touched her hand. She stood quickly, looking down at the small amount of blood that coated her fingertips. She didn’t flinch, merely closed her eyes, sending a silent prayer to the gods. She heard Lord Stark saying something to Jory, but a loud pounding made her look away. She washed her hands in a nearby trough, turning to look at the large figure astride a black courser, a small group of men behind them. The Hound, she realized, and stepped next to Lord Stark’s right side, Jory on his left.

“No sign of your daughter, Lord Hand,” The Hound rasped. His voice made (Y/n)’s stomach clench, not unpleasantly, and she gritted her teeth, her attention drawn by a bloody cloak lain over the back of his horse, something lumpy wrapped up in it. “But we got her little pet.”

“No,” (Y/n) breathed. The Hound pushed the thing off of the horse, and she was the first to dart forward, peeling back the fabric. Not Nymeria, no, no…

The thing in the blanket was not a direwolf. (Y/n) clapped a hand over her mouth, shuddering as she stumbled away. Mycah, cut nearly in half by some awful blow. She turned to face the Hound, meeting his eyes, which glittered black under his ugly dog’s-head helm.

“You monster,” She breathed, just loud enough so he would hear. “He was just a boy. He didn’t even touch Joffrey.”

“You rode him down,” Lord Stark said, astonished.

The Hound didn’t glance in Lord Stark’s direction. He seemed to stare into (Y/n)’s soul, but she didn’t look away, raising her chin. She started for her dagger, but Jory quickly caught her hand, pulling her against him.

“He ran,” The Hound said, then laughed. It was like a dog’s snarl, and (Y/n) wanted to run at the sound, but merely pushed farther into Jory, glaring at the Hound. “But not very fast.”


	3. 3

Arya was curled against (Y/n), who had slipped in not long ago. The handmaiden didn’t make it a habit to share a bed with Arya, but tonight she could make an exception, pulling the girl close as she cried gently.

“It’s my fault,” Arya murmured over and over.

“No, little wolf,” (Y/n) said soothingly, rubbing a gentle hand over Arya’s back. “It’s nobody's fault.”

“Mycah’s dead,” Arya sobbed. “I heard Jeyne talking. They said he was split shoulder to waist.”

(Y/n) stilled. She didn’t think the girl knew.

“Yes,” She said hesitantly. “He’s dead, and we must honor his memory. He was your friend, right? He was mine too. We both knew him as a good lad, and a bit scared, but as kind as could be. Let me see if I can scrounge up a candle and some flowers, and we’ll have a private ceremony, just us two. Mycah will live on in our memories.”

Arya nodded, sniffling. (Y/n) slid out of the bed, winding a thick fur around her shoulders. She picked up a nearby candle, using it to light her way as she left the room, her bare feet padding on the stone floor. She dragged her hand against the wall, humming a song quietly, her mind filled with hazy days of playing with Aya and Mycah, looking for rubies she knew wouldn’t be there and talking of little things they loved. She didn’t know if Mycah worshipped the old gods or the Seven, so she mixed the hymns of the Seven with silent prayers of the old, smiling sadly when she found a spare candle, and then a pale purple flower.

“You’re awake, little squirrel,” A voice said from behind her.

(Y/n) didn’t have to turn to know it was the Hound, his rasping voice already as familiar to her as Arya’s. Her lip curled without meaning too, and she quickly schooled her expression into a blank slate, turning to face the man with the unlit candle and flower tucked away in the fur’s folds.

“So are you,” (Y/n) said evenly, looking up at the Hound. “May I ask why, Ser?”

“I’m no Ser,” The Hound growled, his eyes scanning over her body. She was painfully aware of how thin her nightdress was, how it left nothing to the imagination. Then he smiled and a flutter ran through (Y/n)’s chest. “Do I frighten you?”

She couldn’t see well in the moonlight, but she made out a twisted mess on one side of his face, large shapes and colors hidden beneath the hair he brushed to cover it. It was an ugly sight, yes, but she didn’t look away, merely picked up her candle, stepping closer. She leaned up onto her tiptoes, nearing the Hound’s face. His smile had faltered, and he seemed surprised, but hid it well, watching her. Her other hand came up, cupping the back of his neck to bring him down, but he blew out her candle before she could take a good look, and she dropped back down.

“No,” She said sternly, turning back to gather more flowers. “Is there something you need?”

“Your name.”

The answer was surprising. (Y/n) turned, pausing when she saw him staring at her. He looked almost guilty, some distant voice said in the back of her head. (Y/n) forced it back, remembering Mycah’s body. 

“I would’ve thought you knew it, with everyone’s talk,” She said before she could think better of it.

“Oh yes, everyone talks of you,” The Hound said with another snarling smile. “But it’s just talk. I wanted to see if they were right."

(Y/n) raised an eyebrow, and gasped when a sword came at her. She dodged it with grace, her dagger drawn.

“It is true,” The Hound said with a laugh. “You can fight.”

“Every lady should know how to protect herself,” (Y/n) said, loosening up. She eased her foot back, remembering her mother’s words. “It makes no sense to rely on guards.”

The Hound grinned, sending another swipe. It was a tourney blade, (Y/n) realized, dancing away from the sword, a small smile on her face. He was testing her.

“Little squirrel,” The Hound said, lunging.

“Old hound,” (Y/n) snarked, fighting back a smirk when she ducked under his blow. “Is this one of the most fearsome warriors in the Seven Kingdoms?”

The Hound had forced her out into the courtyard, the furs slipped from her shoulders. She had set aside her dagger, merely spinning from the tourney sword and sending quips to the man, who seemed more and more determined the more she kept away. Finally, she had scooped up a simple spear, the tip broken and dulled from old hunts, and had used it, mimicking her mother’s old movements. She knocked against the Hound’s knees, not hard enough to injure, but enough for him to know he had been hit, and laughed when he span, trying to hit her. Her cheeks were flushed pink as she moved, the cool air slipping underneath the thin nightgown she wore, flying up around her knees. Finally, the tourney sword glanced off of her side, and she fell with a grunt, grinning.

“You won,” She said, panting. She pushed herself to her feet, tilting her head up to look at the Hound. “You’re not so bad with a sword.”

“Where’d you learn to fight like that,” The Hound asked, scooping a wineskin from the ground. “I’ve never seen it before.”

“My mother taught me,” (Y/n) said, swiping the wineskin from him and taking a swig. “She and my father.”

The Hound nodded, but his eyes slid behind her, resting on something on the ground. (Y/n) turned, curious, and froze. Her furs were laid out on a railing, but the candles and flowers were on the ground, staring up at the two almost accusingly. 

(Y/n) remembered what had originally brought her here, and set aside the spear, taking up the furs and flowers gently. She tucked them away, looking up at the Hound, who watched her silently. He wanted an answer, she could see that, but she wasn’t inclined to give one. Not to him.

“I’m afraid I do not know your name,” (Y/n) said calmly, her face as blank and smooth as marble. 

“Sandor,” The Hound said, seemingly reluctant. 

(Y/n) nodded, bidding him a quiet goodnight before turning away. She shouldn’t have been fighting with a murderer. She shouldn’t have been playing with the prince’s dog. Something clicked in her mind

“A dog.” (Y/n) stilled, looking down at the flowers in her hands. “A dog has to have orders to do something.”

With that thought in mind, (Y/n) hurried down the hall, letting herself into Arya’s room. A dog must have orders.


	4. 4

King’s Landing smelled of shit and foul meat. (Y/n) didn’t mind it at all. She stayed in the wheelhouse with Sansa and Arya, but the small window she kept open let her view a little of the city.

“Sansa, Arya, come see,” (Y/n) called, opening the window with a smile. Both girls had cried or brooded nearly all day yesterday, and (Y/n) refused to let that happen again, distracting both of them. “I can see the Red Keep, we’ll be there soon.”

Sansa seemed to brighten, her eyes dancing on the towers and turrets of the castle. (Y/n) smiled, turning to face Arya, who sat back a bit, her grey eyes stormy. (Y/n)’s smile fell, and she placed her hand on Sansa’s back before moving to sit next to Arya.

“Arya,” (Y/n) said lowly. She pulled the girl close with a sigh, leaning her head on her shoulder. “I promise, we’ll have fun here.”

“No, we won’t,” Arya grumbled, sinking into (Y/n)’s arms. “It’ll be miserable here.”

“Oh hush.” (Y/n) swatted at Arya’s head gently, nestling her cheek onto her hair. “If you can say one positive thing about King’s Landing, I’ll teach you more to fighting.”

Arya sat up straight, her eyes wide. She looked around, peering out of the window quickly. (Y/n) fought a smile when she darted to sit next to Sansa, who didn’t offer any insults or sideways glances, both girls captivated by the city. She let herself relax against the soft cushions. They still smelled of Winterfell, pine and cold and rugged comforts she had grown up surrounded by. The furs sent with them in the wheelhouse had been pushed aside, weighing heavily in the heat of the great city. (Y/n) was almost remorseful when she peeled them away from her skin, but the sweat trickling down her back was enough to make her forget. 

“It’ll be fun to explore,” Arya said, scooting back to (Y/n)’s side. She was excited a bit, (Y/n) could see, but also scared, sad. 

(Y/n) smiled, both for Arya’s comfort and herself's, and tugged lovingly on one of Arya’s braids. Arya giggled, resting her head back, and (Y/n) hummed one of her mother’s lullabies, the sweet and steady melody drifting through the air. (Y/n) could never stand silence, and she didn’t wish to dwell in her thoughts at the moment, so she focused on her singing, making it swell and rise as they rode to the keep. Just for an instant, thoughts of Mycah and the Hound, Bran, and Cersei ebbed to the back of her mind and she focused on her girls, who sat, so young and trusting, listening to her song. 

The wheelhouse stopped with a jerk. (Y/n) swiped at her eyes groggily, trying to remember what had happened. She must have fallen asleep. It was no great wonder she had, the ride had been long, and the wheelhouse pleasant. She wasn’t the only one, as Jeyne brushed an unruly hair out of her face, and Sansa discreetly wiped drool from the corners of her mouth. Arya was still nestled by her side, and (Y/n) nudged her awake, cooing quietly.

“My ladies,” Vayon Poole said as he opened the door, bowing his head politely. He helped all of them out, offering a small smile to Jeyne, who returned it gently.

Arya had awoken, and held (Y/n)’s hand, her eyes wide as she took in the keep. (Y/n) smiled, offering polite nods to the stableboys, who watched her with wide eyes, speaking to the guards who had been with the party the whole way.

“Why are they looking at us,” Arya whispered, tugging on (Y/n)’s skirts.

“They’ve never seen a Northerner,” (Y/n) replied, leaning down to whisper. “And we look strange to these Southron boys.”

Arya hmphed, looking down at her dress. She never liked dresses, but (Y/n) had made her wear it, with a promise of payment later. She didn’t _feel_ all that strange. She wanted to march right over and ask what they wanted, and was about to do so, but (Y/n) caught her hand, leading her after Septa Mordane, who was marching ahead of all.

(Y/n) was sweltering in the heat, reminding herself to choose dresses with lighter fabrics. She glanced down at Arya, who looked around excitedly, noting how the sparkle in her eyes caught alight every time she glanced at the training yard.

“You already have a sword,” (Y/n) said, leaning down to speak quietly. She snickered when Arya’s attention snapped to her, her face pale and her eyes wide. “I’m not a fool, Arya. I know Jon gave it to you. We’ll use that to train, yes?”

“Will I be able to hold my own,” Arya asked quickly. “Defend myself?”

“Of course,” (Y/n) said with a smile. “Keep in mind, I’m no professional. I just know a few things.”

Quiet descended upon the two, Arya lost in her thoughts, (Y/n) trying to memorize the way. Septa Mordane was ahead, clucking on about staying in their rooms, and to remember their manners. (Y/n) sighed, but her spirits lifted when she saw Jory approaching.

“Hello,” (Y/n) said, waving him closer. “What brings you to our side, brave knight?”

Arya giggled and Jory sent both of them a wry smile. (Y/n) had always loved his smiles, and she itched to cup his face. He seemed to sense it, for his gaze softened, and his hand grazed hers slightly.

“Lord Stark says I have to make sure you stay in your rooms,” He said loud enough for Sansa and Jeyne to hear. He sent a look to Arya. “No exploring.”

Arya pouted, and (Y/n) laughed, shaking her head. She smiled up at Jory, the two speaking softly to each other. They rarely had time alone together, and if (Y/n) leaned in just a tad bit closer than usual, and Jory smiled a bit more than normal, well, that was nothing but Northern politeness.

“Maybe you could let me slip out,” (Y/n) asked, flashing Jory her prettiest smile. “I could help you stay awake.”

“I’m afraid I can’t let that happen.” Jory smiled wickedly, his eyes gleaming nonetheless. “But I could lose track of you if you wanted to look around.”

“I fear I may get lost in here if I try to look around,” (Y/n) said. She smiled when the Septa stopped, motioning to the rooms. “Finally.”

Jory chuckled, watching Arya seize forward, dragging (Y/n) behind her. (Y/n) offered him a wave, and he returned it, looking after her longingly.

“Jory,” Septa Mordane said sharply. She looked him over with her stern grey eyes, but he could see amusement sparkle in them. “I hope you find yourself in Lord Stark’s favor. (Y/n) is a treasure.”

With that, she swept away, her long robes trailing after her. Jory watched, settling against the wall with a sigh. He needn’t wait long, for a soft knock came from Arya’s door, He smiled, glancing around before pulling it open, watching (Y/n) slip out. She had changed, he realized, a softer, lighter fabric hugging her loosely.

“It’s hot,” (Y/n) murmured when she caught him staring. “Do you like it?”

Jory smiled, leaning down to press a chaste kiss to (Y/n)’s lips.

“I love it,” He said when he pulled back. He smiled when she blushed prettily, moving a strand of her hair away from her neck. “Where’d you get it?”

“A lady must always be prepared.” (Y/n) drew herself up tall, then giggled, resting against the wall with him. “We must be careful. Who could see us?”

Jory only smiled, his eyes dropping to her lips. (Y/n) rolled her eyes, but leaned forward. This kiss was deeper, her hands fluttering up to the back of his neck. Jory set his hand on the small of her back, pulling her closer, until he ran out of breath, pulling away with a gasp. (Y/n) pressed her forehead against his, closing her eyes gently.

“We’ll marry at Winterfell, while it’s still summer,” Jory said softly, rubbing small circles on her back. “We’ll have the Starks there, and my father. We’ll have wine and lemon cakes, and even fireplums.”

“And children,” (Y/n) giggled. “Many children.”

“Three boys, two girls,” Jory added. “Named Bryen, Cayde-”

“Nysah and Arya,” (Y/n) finished and opened her eyes. She scanned his face, one of her hands moving to cup his cheek. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Jory kissed her one last time, before releasing her, watching her slip back inside Arya’s room. The feeling of eyes pricked his skin like beetles skittering over him, and he turned quickly, only to pause. The Hound, his black eyes shining, walked past with Joffrey. The prince didn’t even glance his way, talking to the Hound animatedly, but the Hound stared at him. He had seen, Jory realized, and nodded his head. The Hound looked away. Jory only relaxed when both were out of sight, looking to Arya’s door. What would happen to them?


	5. 5

(Y/n) sat on one of the benches pushed to the side, watching Arya try her best to hit the dancing master. The man, Syrio Forel, didn’t spare a glance her way, not when she came in by Arya’s side, nor when she sat, but she watched both of them attentively, watching the fluid motions in awe. She was almost jealous of Arya’s opportunity, but it was overshadowed by her joy for the girl. She had the wolf blood and seemed to come alive when handed a weapon.

(Y/n) didn’t know she was grinning until a chuckle came from her side. The door was opened a bit, Jory peeking at her. She glanced at Arya, who was too wrapped up in her lesson to notice her, and slipped out, pulling the door closed silently.

“Jory,” (Y/n) gasped when he pulled her by the waist. “Wait!”

Jory chuckled again, the rumble in his chest vibrating low in (Y/n)’s belly. She pushed him away, fighting back a smile. 

“I wanted to see you,” He said gently.

“It seems Kingslanding has changed you as well,” (Y/n) said with a quark of an eyebrow. “You were never this bold at Winterfell.”

“I was under Stark’s gaze for most of the day. Here,” Jory said, leaning in. “I have most of the day for you.”

(Y/n) smiled despite herself, feeling her cheeks blaze. She lowered her eyes, looking away. She wanted to stay, talk more, but a deep worry pushed about her heart, and her smile fell as she stepped away. It seemed she was right, for no sooner had she put distance between them had Harwin, another guard at Winterfell rounded the corner, nodding when he saw Jory.

“Lord Stark asks for you,” Harwin said to Jory, glancing at (Y/n) with a hidden smirk. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Ever so bold, Harwin.” (Y/n) rolled her eyes, but smiled, exasperated. She turned back to face Jory, her smile softening. “Be safe. I don’t trust these people.”

Jory nodded, Harwin by his side as they left. His cape swished around the corner, and (Y/n) let go of a breath she didn’t know she was holding in. 

“Oh, I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here,” A voice said.

(Y/n) gasped, whirling around to face the speaker. She tensed when she saw it was Joffrey, curtsying slightly.

“Your grace,” She said respectfully, the words vile in her mouth. She rose, and almost flinched at the smile on his face. Instead, she focused her attention on Sandor, who hung just over his shoulder, his face covered by a helm. She had never seen it in more than moonlight, and almost wished for a better visage. “It’s nice to see you. How is your arm faring?”

“What, this?” Joffrey spared a glance to his right arm, which was free of the silk wrappings. “Better now. You’re the little one’s handmaiden, yes?”

“Yes, your grace, her faithful companion,” (Y/n) said, edging towards the door. “Is there something you need from Arya? I’m afraid she’s rather busy at the moment.”

Joffrey only smiled. He motioned to the Hound over his shoulder, who nodded at her.

“You’ve met the Hound,” Joffrey asked, his little grin not parting from his face. It seemed to grow when (Y/n) nodded, and he turned, looking at her over his shoulder. “Come, walk with me.”

(Y/n) laid a hand on the door handle, her heart quickening. She couldn't leave the girl, she didn’t want to.

“Your Grace, I-”

“You would not disobey an order from the prince, would you?” Joffrey started away, slowly.

(Y/n) sent one more look to the door and hurried to catch up to the prince, a string of curses in her head. She folded her hands in front of her, tightening her grip when she felt Joffrey reach to link their arms. She had chosen a muted silk to combat the heat, but now she just felt exposed, the thin fabric showing off her figure.

“Is there a reason you needed me, your grace?” (Y/n) was careful to keep her voice light and warm, smiling at all they passed. Her mind was reeling, but she planted herself down at the moment, drawing her wits about her like a shield. “I do need to be there for my lady. She is rather wild, you see, and I wouldn’t want her to get in any trouble.”

“Yes, she’s wild,” Joffrey drawled. “Isn’t she, dog?”

“Like a rabid wolf,” Sandor said gruffly.

Joffrey laughed at that, and (Y/n) winced, but offered a tepid smile. She had never wanted to hit a child so badly as she did now, but she clenched her hands into fists and left it at that, letting her anger leave her.

“If I may ask, where are we going?” (Y/n) looked over her shoulder, her brow furrowing when she realized she couldn’t see the hall anymore. “Your grace?”

Joffrey didn’t answer. (Y/n) looked around, her blood going cold when she realized she was being led down a dead-end hall, dimly lit with no windows and very little torches. She stopped in her tracks and felt the Hound loom over her, but was distracted by her pounding heart.

“I have to go back,” (Y/n) said thickly, ducking out of the Hound’s way. “I’m sorry, your grace, but my lady calls.”

“Dog,” Joffrey said expectantly.

Sandor hesitated but stepped forward. That was enough to send (Y/n) tearing down the hall, her dress trailing after her. Somewhere, she heard Joffrey squawking orders, and heavy footsteps pounding after her. She couldn’t outrun the Hound, she knew, so she skidded inside a nearby doorway, bolting it shut quickly. She slid to the ground, swallowing sobs when she heard knocking on the wood.

“Little squirrel,” Sandor said from behind the door, knocking again. “Come out. Joffrey will be here soon, and you need to run.”

(Y/n) sniffled, confused, and thought. If Sandor had to smash the door, which he very well could, she could be in even more trouble. (Y/n) slid the bolt up. She thrust the door open, her eyes trained on the ground. She glanced up to see Sandor, who stared at her and offered her a hand. She slipped like a shadow up next to him, following quickly as he led her down one hallway, then another. She wasn’t fast enough, and soon her feet left the ground as the Hound scooped her up, tossing her across his shoulder. (Y/n) gasped, gripping tightly to the Hound’s olive green cloak. She felt like a sack of potatoes, drooping across the armored shoulder limply, but said nothing, scanning the hallway behind them.

“Where are you taking me,” (Y/n) said finally, trying to keep quiet as the turns got less and less frequent until Sandor was going down a corridor she didn’t recognize. “Please, Sandor.”

The Hound paused then, and let her down. She slumped to the floor, huddled against the fine stone wall, and stared up at him, her cheeks tearstained and red. Sandor squatted to be level with her, his eyes sharp in the light. 

“Look, girl,” He said roughly, one of his hands catching her chin. “You have that Northern boy of your’s, don’t you? From now on, stay with him. Don’t leave his side, and keep that little one close.”

“What did Joffrey mean to do to me,” (Y/n) asked, her voice barely above a whisper. 

Sandor didn’t answer, just stood with a sigh, and turned away, stalking around the corner. When he was out of sight, (Y/n) got up, her legs shaking beneath her. She leaned against the wall, breathing deeply as she willed herself to calm down. She was near Arya’s bedchambers, (Y/n) realized, and stumbled to the girl’s door, letting herself in. Just a minute, she thought, just a minute of rest.


	6. 6

The Hand’s Tourney was on a bright and sunny day, and (Y/n) soaked in the sun, determined to lose herself in today’s festivities. The knights came prancing out on strong stallions, armor shining in the sun and capes flying behind them. She recognized some, the Kingsguard for instance, and Ser Jaime Lannister, but it wasn’t until the Northmen came that she truly grinned, cheering loudly.

“Jory looks a beggar among the others,” Septa Mordane sniffed. 

(Y/n) frowned, sending a sharp glance to Sansa when she nodded along. Jory was dressed in plain blue-grey armor without ornament, but it was cleaner than the other mens, shining in the sun, his cape, however thin, one she recognized from having wrapped around her shoulders. She grinned, whooping as he rode past. Her favor was tied around his arm, brilliant (f/c) fabric flapping in the breeze. He offered a smile she could barely see from under his helm, but returned in full force, placing her hands over her heart. She giggled when he offered her a wave, but her giddiness subsided when the Hound followed soon after. She gave him a smile, which fell quickly when he rode by without a glance in her direction. She sat up straighter when the tourney started, sending a smile to Jeyne and Sansa. She cheered with the smallfolk whenever Jory knocked someone off, disagreeing loudly and vehemently when the king gave the third match’s victory to a man named Lothor Brune.

Sandor seemed unstoppable, knocking one man after the other off their horses, and he aimed well, for none of the men sustained any worse injuries than a heavy fall. (Y/n) wished she could say the same for Gregor Clegane, but in the Mountain’s second joust, his lance snapped, burrowing into the neck of some poor man. 

(Y/n) winced, looking on in pity, and slipping her hand in Sansa’s. She leaned over to Jeyne, patting her hand gently.

“You see,” She said quietly, wiping tears from Jeyne’s face and cupping Sansa’s cheek, drawing their attention. “Life can end any instant. We must pray for this man’s soul, and remember to cherish every moment of our lives.”

Jeyne trembled, and (Y/n) pulled away, offering her a sympathetic smile. (Y/n) saw from the corner of her eyes as Septa Mordane led Jeyne off, the girl crying so hard she didn’t make any noise. She gave the Septa a nod, signaling she could go and let (Y/n) take care of Sansa. She sent a worried glance to Sansa, who sat tall and quiet, her eyes trailing over the knight’s prone figure.

“Darling, are you alright?” (Y/n) set a hand on Sansa’s, drawing the redhead's attention. “You seem troubled.”

“Nobody will know his name.” Sansa scanned her face for a minute, seemingly in a daze, before she blinked owlishly, shuddering. “There will be no songs sung for him.”

(Y/n) nodded, her eyes dropping. The jousts were back on, a boy shoveling dirt over the spot where the man fell. A knight (Y/n) vaguely remembered as Balon Swann fell to Gregor, but she only looked away. She squeezed her hand together in her lap, shutting her eyes. She pictured Jory coming up in the stands, his armor shining, offering her his hand, and she relaxed, letting out a shaky breath. She had seen men die before, but never so gruesome as that. She opened her eyes, just in time to see Sandor riding past. She had missed a joust, most likely between him and Renly Baratheon, if the man walking back towards his horse was anything to go by. 

She did not truly dread any of these men, besides Gregor Clegane, but the next rider, a fair man with soft brown hair and heavily ornamented armor was more than enough to send a stroke of worry into her stomach. She was proven right when, after his joust, he offered Sansa a red rose. 

“Sweet lady,” He said in a voice sweet as honey. “No victory is half as beautiful as you.”

Sansa blushed a pretty pink, smiling as she sniffed the rose. (Y/n) offered the knight, Loras Tyrell, she thought, a nod, resting a hand on Sansa’s shoulder protectively. Another man, this one older, stepped up to them as soon as Loras rode away, his short frame hovering over Sansa.

“You must be one of her daughters,” He said with a smile that did not reach his eyes. “You have the Tully look.”

“I’m Sansa Stark,” Sansa said uneasily, tucking herself into (Y/n)’s side stealthily. “I haven’t the pleasure of knowing you, my lord.”

Septa Mordane, who (Y/n) had not realized had come back, quickly stepped up, introducing the man. (Y/n) watched carefully.

“Your mother was once a great beauty. You have her hair.” The man made a move to reach forward, and (Y/n) wrapped an arm around Sansa’s shoulders, sensing the girl’s discomfort.

“Her mother is still a great beauty.” (Y/n) sent the man a sweet smile. “I believe the king means to end the tourney for today. If you’ll excuse us, my lord.”

(Y/n) led Sansa away, ignoring her protests to watch the last joust, not letting her go until they were seated, just to the left of the dais the king and queen sat on. She sighed, sitting between the Septa and Sansa, her eyes drifting wistfully to where Jory sat. He was already looking at her, fiddling with her favor. She offered him a smile, and quickly lost herself in the meal, eating small bites, watching worriedly as the Septa got drunker and drunker, sending hidden glares at Joffrey, who either didn’t see them or ignored them. Finally, she knew the night was over when the king stood, red-faced and drunkenly yelling at his wife, who looked lifeless. (Y/n) almost felt bad for her.

“It is late,” Joffrey said quietly, looking pale. His mother had stormed away, her train following. “Will you need an escort back?”

“No,” Sansa said quickly and looked to Septa Mordane, who had passed out. 

“We would be honored, your grace,” (Y/n) said evenly, recognizing the look on the prince’s face. Shame burned in his gaze when he locked eyes with her, but she swallowed her burning hate and offered him a warm smile.

“Dog,” Joffrey yelled, and Sandor slipped from the night like a ghost. “Take my betrothed and her companion back to the castle. Make sure no harm befalls them.”

Joffrey left without a farewell. (Y/n) took Sansa’s arm in hers, offering the girl a smile. She stood between Sansa and Sandor, who snatched up a torch and led them down a narrow path.

“You rode gallantly, Ser Sandor,” Sansa said timidly, following close to (Y/n)’s side.

“Spare me your little compliments, girl, and your ser’s. I’m no knight.” Sandor laughed, and (Y/n) felt Sansa tighten her grip. “I spit on them and their vows. My brother is a knight. Did you see him ride today?”

“He’s no knight,” (Y/n) said with a derisive snort. “He’s a murderer.”

“Nobody could withstand him,” Sansa added.

Sandor stopped in the middle of the path. (Y/n) muttered an order for Sansa to get behind her, and raised her chin as Sandor turned to them.

“You’re like a little bird from the Summer Isles,” Sandor rasped. An outline of a mean smile burned on his face, and Sansa gripped (Y/n) tighter, looking away. “Some septa trained you well. You open your mouth and repeat all the pretty words they taught you.”

“A clever bird then,” (Y/n) retaliated. “A clever bird and a squirrel, up against a hound.”

Sandor lunged, dragging (Y/n) forward. Sansa gasped, and stepped back, but (Y/n) didn’t even flinch, a gaze like steel cutting into the Hound, who matched her intensity.

“So brave, aren’t you,” He snarled. He pulled the torch closer, and (Y/n) finally saw the ruin of his face. “Take a look then, little squirrel. Look at me!”

One side of him could’ve been at least attractive. He was gaunt, with high cheekbones and a sturdy jaw. His grey eyes, drunken and sullen, were cool as the ice back at Winterfell, but her eyes drifted away from the right and landed squarely on the left side. Large, oozing pockmarks and black flesh twisted into thick scars, his ear gone, replaced by a hole. Fissures were wet and red along his neck and chin, tough as old leather. A sliver of jaw bone was pearly white against all of it, and (Y/n) reached up, running a finger along it gently. She scanned his ruin of a face softly, her fingers lighting upon scars and wet with blood from the pockmarks. Sandor watched her, his eyes narrowed, untrusting. Sansa was crying behind them, and Sandor snuffed out the torch with a scoff, yanking from her touch.

“There must be a story behind this,” (Y/n) said gently, pulling her hand away to wipe off the blood and set it on his arm, fumbling to find a grip. “You can tell me if you’d like. Come now, Sansa!”

Sansa scurried to walk behind them, shuddering and shaking. (Y/n) offered her a free hand, rubbing small circles on her pale skin with the pad of her thumb. She listened as Sandor growled out what happened, her grip on his arm tightening. 

“My father told everyone my bedding caught fire. The maester gave me ointments. Ointments! Gregor got his ointments too. I saw him anointed by the seven oils. He repeated his knightly vows, and Rhaegar Targaryen tapped him on the shoulders and said ‘Arise, Ser Gregor’.”

The silence dragged on and on, (Y/n) listening to Sandor’s ragged breathing. She wasn’t scared of him, she hadn’t been since the forest, only cautious, and now, sad. She sighed quietly, resting her head on his arm. 

“He was no true knight,” Sansa said quietly from (Y/n)’s side.

Sandor threw his head back and roared. Sansa jerked from (Y/n)’s hand, but (Y/n) quickly seized her arm, dragging her back. 

“No, little bird, he was no true knight.” Sandor was still shaking with laughter.

“Sansa, go up ahead,” (Y/n) whispered to the girl, who nodded, hastily rushing ahead. She turned her head up, searching in the dark for the Hound’s face. “Do you ride tomorrow?”

Sandor grunted. (Y/n) sighed, turning her attention back forward. Her arms were still linked with his, her hands playing with the corner of his tunic. She didn’t move from her place at his side, not when they entered the castle, his burnt face twitching, not even when they went up the staircase, Sansa one step ahead of them. It wasn’t until they came to the corridor outside Sansa’s bedchambers that (Y/n) shooed the girl in, and Sandor grabbed her arm, turning her around.

“If you tell anyone,” He growled. “Joffrey, Arya, their father…”

“You’ll kill me,” (Y/n) finished, twisting like a fish until she was out of his grasp. “Thank you for the escort, my lord.”

(Y/n) marched inside without a backward glance, slamming the door behind her.


	7. 7

The second day of the tourney was here, and Septa Mordane couldn’t come, an “ailment” keeping her in her rooms. (Y/n) sat beside Ned and Sansa, her hands folded in her lap like a lady. That was what she must be, she reminded herself. At Winterfell, she could join in Arya’s wild romps, but in the Red Keep, everything was seen. She had learned that soon after a washerwoman had cornered her, asking how it was she earned the Hound’s favor.

The Hound. (Y/n) tensed at the thought of the man, his grey eyes peering through her thoughts. He had smelled like wine, sour on his breath, but she hadn’t pulled away. She had touched his face, almost as shocking to him as it was to her when she thought back on it. The thoughts of last night banged about in her head while she watched him ride, laughing when he won, and near cackling when Jaime Lannister’s lion helm was bent. While she laughed, she turned and saw Sandor, his eyes already on her. She sent him a grin, reaching into her hair to pull out a blue flower she had stuck in the back, and tossing it to him. He caught it, sending her a sneer as he turned away.

“Oh he’s beautiful,” Sansa whispered by (Y/n)’s side.

(Y/n) turned, confused, and stilled. Loras Tyrell, skinny as a stick, pranced by, his armor gleaming. She glanced at him, then at the rose Sansa still wore, but what caught her attention was Gregor Clegane. The large man sat astride a stallion, the horse trumpeting and puffing, stomping on the dirt. The mare was in heat, (Y/n) realized. She grinned, sitting up straighter to get a better view. She was happy she did when Gregor’s stallion plunged forward, leaving him juggling for his shield and lance. Loras’ mare was smooth as water, and with the right placing, Loras knocked Gregor clean off of his seat, both rider and horse falling to the ground in a mess of metal. (Y/n) cheered, pausing when she heard strident laughter. The Hound was grinning, the source of that laughter, and (Y/n) watched him, her grin growing.

“My sword,” A yell caught her attention.

She turned in time to see Gregor slice his horses head off in a single swoop. Sansa was crying next to her, Ned yelling something that was lost in the noise that came after. Gregor was stomping towards Loras, who was scrambling for his sword, his bloody blade clutched in his fist. (Y/n) silently asked for forgiveness as she stood, her dagger flying from her fingers quickly. It stuck in the Mountain’s pudgy arm, slipping under space in his armor, and he bellowed, whipping to see who had thrown it. (Y/n) didn’t get down in time, and her heart leapt to her throat when the Mountain caught her glare, his eyes wild. She stood still as he came forward, watching him jerk the small dagger from his arm and toss it to the ground. She leaned forward a bit, ready to run.

“Leave them be,” A growl came, and a steel-clad hand jerked Gregor’s sword away. 

The Mountain swung violently, and Sandor blocked it. (Y/n) went forward, but a hand caught her wrist. Lord Stark, his eyes hard, jerked her back, and she sat, watching with worry. It seemed to be eternal, the brothers hammering away at each other, and (Y/n) longed to rush forward, toss her little blade into the Moutain’s neck and watch his life’s blood pour out, but Sansa clung to her side, sobbing hysterically into her shoulder. She held the Stark girl close, shushing her and whispering words of comfort, looking over her head to watch the fight.

“STOP THIS MADNESS IN THE NAME OF YOUR KING,” King Robert boomed, rocketing to his feet.

Sandor dropped to a knee, the Mountain’s sword flying over his head in an arch. The Mountain dropped his blade, glaring at the king. He ground his foot in one spot on the ground, and a sharp sound like glass cracking came. He stared at (Y/n) poisonously as he did, and (Y/n) winced, knowing that her dagger was broken.

“Is the Hound the champion now,” Sansa asked.

“No,” Ned answered. “There’s one more joust between the Hound and Ser Loras.”

Sansa proved to be right, however, when Loras came back on, his armor gone.

“I owe you my life,” The boy said warmly. “The day is yours, ser.”

“I’m no ser,” The Hound growled, and (Y/n) laughed without meaning too.

“And you as well.” Loras turned to her with a smile, motioning her to stand. “The bravest maid I’ve ever seen!”

(Y/n) flushed red, but stood, ducking her head with a shy smile. The smallfolk cheered, and she curtsied to Ser Loras, offering the Hound a smile. He didn’t return it, taking the champion’s purse and marching off the field.

“We’ll talk in my solar later.” Lord Stark stood quickly, catching Sansa’s arm and leading her away. 

(Y/n)’s smile fell, and she started after them, only to pause, looking back to where the Hound stood. She fought through the crowd, leaping over the railing to land on her feet. She sighed when she saw her dagger, split into a million pieces. She bent, scooping up all she could and winding it in a handkerchief, before starting off to the pavilions. 

“There she is,” Whispers came as she marched through the tents, looking around. “The one who struck the Mountain.”

(Y/n) huffed, avoiding people’s stares. She relaxed when she found the pavilion she was looking for. It was simpler than she imagined for the prince’s sworn shield, white and yellow striped with a hound’s head on the side, but she entered nonetheless. Sandor sat on a chair heavily, his armor stripped away, leaving him in a thin doublet. (Y/n) cleared her throat, setting aside the small bundle with the broken dagger.

“Fool girl,” Sandor said when he saw her. “He’ll come after you now. My brother never forgets a slight.”

“I hope he doesn’t. He’ll have to remember how a green girl struck him with a dagger,” (Y/n) grumbled, sitting on the bed opposite the Hound. “He broke it, you know.”

Sandor nodded, glancing at the velvet purse. He reached for it after a moment’s pause, and pulled out fifteen coins, tossing the purse to her. (Y/n) caught it, alarmed, and looked up at him.

“I only want a drink,” Sandor growled. “Get myself a whore.”

(Y/n)’s smile grew as she realized what he was saying, and she was out of her seat without a second thought, her arms thrown around the Hound’s neck. He was sweaty and stiffened under her touch, but she didn’t mind, pressing closer to him.

“You are one of the kindest men I’ve ever known,” She muttered against his neck, smiling. She gasped when she was thrown off, the Hound looming over her.

“Don’t lie to me, squirrel. I killed that butcher’s boy,” He growled, his eyes stormy. “I sliced him in half and brought his body to his father in a bag. The man thought I had brought him a ham at first.”

(Y/n) got to her feet, not taking her eyes off of the Hound. He watched her, a sneer ready to go, when she sighed, nodding.

“Mycah was a good lad,” (Y/n) said slowly, tucking the purse in her pocket. She looked up at the Hound from under her eyelashes. “And I know, if you had been given the choice, you would not have killed him.”

The Hound laughed cruelly. (Y/n) stepped closer, her hand on his arm. His laughter trailed off, and he stared down at her. She swallowed the lump in her throat, and rose to her toes, pressing a chaste kiss on his ruinous cheek. He jerked away, and (Y/n) stepped back. Both of them stared at each other in silence, until (Y/n) turned and fled.


End file.
